


Black House, Bright Memories

by Lomonaaeren



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-23 16:11:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/624062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomonaaeren/pseuds/Lomonaaeren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco expected to have a horrible time at Grimmauld Place with Harry Potter, but at least it would be better than staying at Hogwarts with professors who hated him. But he discovers that while houses might make a difference, Houses don’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black House, Bright Memories

**Author's Note:**

> Written for celestlyn, who gave me the prompt: 8th year-Harry asks Draco to Grimmauld Pl for the holidays when he finds out he will be alone. There’s fluff as well as angst.

  
“Welcome to the home of your ancestors.”  
  
Draco dropped his bags in the entrance hall when he heard Potter announce that, more than half-tempted to turn around and walk out the door. Why should Potter get away with tormenting him when Draco had left him alone all year? He’d barely even _seen_ Potter from the time Potter testified at his parents’ trials and got his father two years in Azkaban instead of ten until the moment Potter walked up to him and invited him home over the holidays.  
  
But then, he’d barely seen his mother, either. She had taken to sleeping in the Ministry, practically, so busy was she with petitions to release his father even earlier and making sure he had comforts in his cell that most of the prisoners didn’t. It was the reason he would have spent Christmas alone if not for Potter; Narcissa had told him, the circles beneath her eyes and her hair both starting to go grey, that she wouldn’t have time for a celebration.  
  
 _If not for Potter._  
  
It seemed to Draco that too many things in his life came back to that one sentence, and he didn’t like it.  
  
“No, I didn’t mean it sarcastically. You probably know a lot more about some of the artifacts here than I would.”  
  
Draco started and turned around. Potter was standing in the entrance of what looked like, form the counters Draco could see, a kitchen. He straightened up and gave Draco a quick smile that wasn’t warm enough for Draco, that never _could_ be warm enough.  
  
“I hope—I mean, I know you suspect my motives,” Potter continued quietly. “But I don’t think anyone should be alone now.”  
  
“You were planning to be,” Draco said, not knowing his voice would come out so accusing until he spoke. “None of your little friends are here, and I know they all looked shocked when you invited me.”  
  
“This is as much for me as for you,” Potter said, without making clear how that could possibly be so. “Go on upstairs. I haven’t really lived here since the end of the war, so you can have whatever room you want. Just keep away from the one at the end of the first floor corridor with the tapestry over the door.”  
  
Draco sneered. “Of sentimental value, is it?” It made sense that _some_ things around here would be associated with Potter’s godfather, despite his attempt to claim that he hadn’t lived here. Draco didn’t believe that, frankly. Who would let a house as big as this one just go all to rack and ruin without making some attempt to reclaim it?  
  
“No, it bites,” Potter said dryly. “But if you want to lose a finger or your nose, that’s fine with me.” And he turned around and walked into the kitchen, leaving Draco to decide if he believed him.  
  
In the end, he chose not to challenge Potter’s obvious mental instability, choosing a room that looked over a back garden which had definitely seen better days. Draco leaned his arms on the sill and looked down at the ragged, bleak grass. The color of the grass more or less matched the faded curtains on the windows, and the ashes in the fireplace, although a muttering house-elf soon appeared to attend to the hearth.  
  
Draco sighed and sat down on the bed, which creaked ominously beneath him. _Why_ had he agreed to come? He would have been better off in the empty Manor after all.  
  
*  
  
But that was before he woke and smelled the most delicious scent of breakfast frying. It smelled—Draco’s nose worked as he hastily threw on a new shirt but kept the same trousers as yesterday—yes, of bacon, and eggs, and something thick and sweet that he hoped was marmalade. He loved it, but his mother never allowed him to have too much of it, claiming it was bad for his digestion, and he had to fight with other Slytherins for it at Hogwarts.  
  
He went to the kitchen, expecting the sullen house-elf again, and that he would be able to just fill his plate and leave.  
  
To his utter shock, it was Potter who was cooking, a ragged jumper with a large H on the front stretched over his chest and shoulders. His Muggle jeans were patched and torn. Draco wrinkled his nose, but had to admit that the food smelled delicious anyway. And there was a jar of marmalade on the table, which was already open.  
  
The table set with _two_ plates, Draco couldn’t help but note.  
  
“Take whatever you want to drink,” Potter said, flapping his hand at a boiling kettle and a jug of water that sat on the counter. He spoke in a distracted tone, never taking his eyes off their breakfast. “I just have pumpkin juice myself.”  
  
That sounded good, but Draco would have had to ask Potter where it was, since he didn’t see it, and he didn’t want to speak. He folded his arms and sat down in the chair nearest the door. After he finished the breakfast, then he planned to bolt. Potter would either be glad to sit in silence or would try to _talk_ to him, about inane things. Draco enjoyed neither prospect.  
  
In the end, Potter gave a final tap with his wand to one of the pans, seemed satisfied with the result, and stepped back, pulling out a carafe of pumpkin juice from behind the container of water. He poured his own glass, which was over on the counter, full of the orange liquid, and turned around, floating the food behind him. Draco jerked his eyes away, but he didn’t manage it fast enough.  
  
There was a long pause. Then Potter said gently, “Malfoy, did you want some pumpkin juice?”  
  
Why did he have to sound _that_ way, as if Draco was a baby? Draco hunched his shoulders and didn’t say anything.  
  
There was a soft clink. Draco turned his head, sure it was just the food arriving, and that he should devour it as quickly as he could so he could go and hide himself in his room. God, what Potter must be _thinking_ of him—  
  
But no, it was the glass of pumpkin juice that Potter had previously poured. Draco stared at it, then at the second cup and the jug of juice Potter held in his hand. He still didn’t say anything, keeping true to at least one part of his vow, but Potter must have felt the stare, because he shrugged and said, “I reckoned I’d give you my cup. That way you could be sure it wasn’t poisoned or that I spit in it or something.”  
  
Draco started eating, because there was no other response to such a declaration, and a mouth full of food would at least give him an _excuse_ for not talking.  
  
Potter talked through breakfast, himself, but lightly and easily, and never in a way that made it seem as if he expected Draco to join in. He talked about his work in the garden behind the house, in a way that made Draco want to roll his eyes and give Potter a piece of his mind about how awful it looked. He talked about how he had decided not to be an Auror, that he wanted to repair things instead. He’d got quite good at Repairing Charms over the last year, he said.  
  
Draco supposed that someone with as many broken limbs as Potter had probably suffered had a natural interest in that kind of thing, but wondered why he hadn’t chosen to go after Healing instead. He longed to ask, but he did the heroic thing and enjoyed his breakfast in silence.  
  
It was _good,_ the bacon crisp, the eggs fluffy, the toast breaking in his mouth with a crunch, the marmalade fresh and sweet. Draco didn’t have to pretend enjoyment, but he did pretend that he didn’t see Potter looking his way with a little smile.  
  
Potter stood up when they were both finished, took the dirty plates to the sink, and began washing. Without turning around, he said casually, “I’ll be doing some more work in the garden later. You’re welcome to join me.”  
  
Draco stood up and stalked out of the room without answering. Maybe they could share a breakfast without exploding at each other, but a situation that involved _dirt_ and _heavy tools_ and the chance for Potter to shove him into the one or brain him with the other? Was Potter insane? Draco knew he would be in danger the instant he opened his mouth, and the sight of Potter with dirt under his fingernails would be too great a temptation.  
  
Of course, if Potter was insane, Draco might be in danger anyway.  
  
He spent some time seriously considering the situation, lying on his bed and staring at his bedroom ceiling, and finally fell asleep in the middle of a Potions tome.  
  
*  
  
Draco leaned on the sill of his window and looked down into the garden. As Potter had promised, he was laboring there, and it seemed that he had to do most of the work by hand, since the plants weren’t worth the magical exhaustion of charms. Draco shook his head at the sight of the shovel and the trowel and the bucket and other things whose names he didn’t even know. Yes, he was well out of it.  
  
“Master Draco Malfoy is being bored?”  
  
Draco turned and looked down at the sullen house-elf, who looked back at him, and more or less hovered. Draco didn’t know what to make of the strange creature. Yesterday, the elf had acted as if it could barely stand him, but it had started to dog his steps this morning, and asked questions about the fire and the bathwater. Draco had returned monosyllabic answers. He had to think the elf was a spy for Potter, and that Potter would attack the moment he found a weakness.  
  
Because of course that was the reason Potter had invited him over. It _had_ to be. In his own home, he could murder Draco privately and get rid of the body.  
  
“Kreacher is knowing many remedies for boredom in the library,” croaked the elf, still trying to look helpful.  
  
Draco started. _That_ name, he knew; his aunt had sneered and laughed about how she had tricked his cousin’s house-elf into helping them decoy Potter, and ultimately destroy his godfather. “Are you bound to the house?” he asked cautiously. “Is that the reason Potter didn’t destroy you?”  
  
“Master Harry Potter is not destroying me,” said Kreacher, looking down at his skinny arms with their thick black hairs as if he wanted to make sure they weren’t disappearing. “Master Harry Potter is telling me not to be punishing myself.” He sighed and looked wistfully at a deep scar in the wood at the base of Draco’s wall. “Kreacher is obeying.”  
  
Draco wasn’t sure he wanted to know where the scar came from, or what had caused it, but he _did_ want to know what Kreacher was implying. “You mean that he _wants_ you around?”  
  
Kreacher gave him a wounded look. “Master Draco Malfoy is not wanting me around,” he sniffled, shuffling towards the door. “Master Draco Malfoy is being like the old mistress. She be wanting Kreacher to go away and hurt himself.” He brightened suddenly. “Master Draco Malfoy did not be making Kreacher promise not to hurt himself, yes?”  
  
Draco shook his head. The last thing he wanted was to get in trouble with Potter for ordering his house-elf to roast its ears, or whatever other punishments his Black ancestors had thought appropriate. “It’s just—I thought—that you because you betrayed his godfather, he wouldn’t want you here.”  
  
Kreacher drew himself up. “I is being here,” he said quietly. “Master Harry Potter is forgiving.” And he turned and walked out.  
  
Draco spent some more minutes looking down at Potter in the bleak garden. He continued to labor against soil that was obviously far less forgiving than he was, and in a way that made Draco itch to take his tools from him and show him the right spells.  
  
 _He might have done the best job he can. Imagine what the garden probably looked like before._  
  
But that didn’t change the fact that Potter was doing it incorrectly. And it didn’t overcome Draco’s urge to correct him.  
  
He took a deep breath. If Potter could forgive a house-elf far more intimately involved in the death of someone he loved than Draco had ever been, it was _possible_ that his invitation had been sincere and he wanted Draco there. Draco could go down and see, at least. And offer to help with the garden, while he was at it. At least he thought Potter probably wouldn’t turn down free labor.  
  
Potter did turn and stare so hard when Draco walked out into the garden that Draco thought he should scamper back inside. But then Potter grinned and shook his head so some sweat flew away and mingled with the rain that was beginning to fall. The idiot didn’t even have an Impervious Charm.   
  
“Decided you wanted to do a bit of honest work, huh?” Potter asked.  
  
Draco stepped up beside him without answering that. “Use a bloody _spell_ ,” he said, casting one that made the shovel Potter was lugging around start to dig on its own. “And get rid of those old dead roses, they aren’t doing anything.” He turned and cast a harsh spell at the thorny vines that were tangled around the remnants of what might have been a well, or just an old stone well. Who knew why his Black ancestors wanted to do anything in particular?  
  
“There’s a reason I— _don’t_!”  
  
Draco caught a glimpse of something moving as fast as the Dark Lord’s snake sometimes had, and then Potter had knocked him onto the ground and was staring at him apologetically with eyes greener than the grass. The thing overhead retracted with a hiss and clatter.  
  
“Sorry,” Potter apologized. “I ought to have warned you how the roses react to magic.”  
  
*  
  
“But it’s _daft_ ,” Draco said, gesturing so hard with the Firewhisky Potter had given him that some spilled on the carpet. Kreacher appeared, towel in hand, before Draco could even think of reaching for his wand to clean it up. Draco nodded and settled back into his chair. This was the way it should be, with him tended by house-elves and everything catering to his different and necessary whims. “Why would you bother changing the garden at all, when you realized there were spells to make you leave it alone? Why would my ancestors put those spells on the garden in the first place?”  
  
Potter snorted into his own butterbeer. It passed Draco’s understanding that Potter would have Firewhisky in the house and refuse to drink it himself, but he was reluctantly acknowledging that a great many of Potter’s habits were hard for him to grasp.   
  
Potter only looked simple on the surface. He was all kinds of complicated underneath, like the Four-Notched Rose leaves Professor Snape had shown Draco once, which were a plain green on top and incredibly branched and a panoply of colors on the underside.  
  
Draco frowned accusingly at the Firewhisky. It wasn’t doing its job and drowning his memory. Instead, it was making him think of all sorts of things that he _didn’t want_ to think of. Like Professor Snape. And roses, for that matter.  
  
“I think they _were_ daft,” Potter said. “The whole lot of them. They thought it was a good idea to cut their house-elves’ heads off after they died and display them in the ground floor corridor. For a long time, that was the fate Kreacher wanted. He was disappointed that he wasn’t to be granted the honor of a glorious death.” He sipped more butterbeer, watching Draco with an eager eye.  
  
Draco was almost sorry to be performing to expectations, but on the other hand, there was no way he could react to that with anything other than disgust. “I’m sorry, _what_?”  
  
Potter waved his hand. “Don’t worry, we disposed of them a long time ago. I’m sure there aren’t any in the house anymore.” He paused thoughtfully. “Unless Kreacher kept them. He does that sometimes, you know. I want to get rid of curtains full of doxy eggs, and he keeps and treasures them as a priceless Black family heirloom.” He grinned and once again watched Draco over the lip of the bottle.  
  
Draco shuddered from the depths of his bones. He had never realized until now how much he valued cleanliness. It was hard to, when you were living in places where house-elves took care of it for you.  
  
“I reckon you must think the same of me,” he said. “Think I’m daft. Don’t know why you invited me here, anyway.”  
  
A moment later, he examined the Firewhisky bottle suspiciously for signs of Veritaserum. It was _not_ supposed to make him get all maudlin and sob on _Potter,_ of all people, for sympathy.  
  
Potter shrugged and looked uncomfortable. “Because no one should be alone on Christmas,” he said. “And I thought you would want to come with me rather than stay there. I see the way the professors look at you. Not even McGonagall can hide it, and she bloody well _should,_ when she could overlook me using the Cruciatus Curse in front of her.”  
  
Draco gaped at him. “You did _what_?”  
  
“Well.” Potter looked as if he was blaming his butterbeer for loosening his tongue, too. “Amycus Carrow was insulting her. So I cursed him.”  
  
“That’s no reason for you to do that,” Draco said, not sure whether he should be horrified or impressed. He took a healthy swig of his Firewhisky in lieu of having to decide. “ _That’s_ one I didn’t hear about in the papers.”  
  
Potter’s smile was sad, or something like it. “Well, of course not. Wouldn’t want the public troubled by revelations that Our Saintly Little Hero Harry Potter really isn’t so saintly after all.”  
  
Draco tried to laugh, and ended up spraying most of the whisky on himself. He was reaching the stage of sloppy drunk that he had never been in before, except in front of Pansy and Blaise. He wondered if he should be uncomfortable that he was in it now in front of Potter, and could only find pride that he’d managed to use the right charm to clean the whisky off his clothes. Besides, Potter was grinning, and Draco was glad that they had avoided a moment of self-pity that could have tarnished his perception of Potter further.  
  
“They don’t really call you that,” Draco said, shaking his head in the manner of one too wise to be taken in. “You’re making that up.”  
  
Potter pressed a hand over his heart. “No. I’m not making it up. There was an article after the war that called me that. Only one, thank God. I hate to think of the trend it could have started.”  
  
“You really hate it,” Draco said, and wagged the bottle at him. “I hadn’t thought of you as doing that, but you do.”  
  
“Yes, I hate the attention,” Potter said, and swallowed more butterbeer. Draco reckoned Potter was starting to get a little drunk after all, to keep Draco company. Maybe he’d sneaked some Firewhisky when Draco wasn’t looking, or charmed the butterbeer to have alcohol. “And I hate the way that people used to offer their children to me one minute and then look askance at me the next, all because of something the _Daily Prophet_ said.”  
  
“Then we have something in common!” Draco said triumphantly. He had to pause and consider it. “Well, I liked the times when they all turned on you and hated you. That was kind of fun. And no one ever came up with insults for you as good as the ones I did.”  
  
“We still have something in common,” Potter echoed him, and they leaned forwards to clink their bottles together.  
  
*  
  
Draco looked at the neatly-wrapped package, in the blue and silver paper that his mother had always favored. Then he looked at the note again, the single short letter that had accompanied it, the only communication he’d had with his mother since he came to stay in Grimmauld Place.  
  
 _Dear Draco, I can’t get you much this year, and I feel it best that we not spend the holidays together. I’m sure you understand.  
  
Love, Mummy._  
  
Draco closed his eyes and crumpled the note up, twist by twist, until a very small crumb was left that he set fire to. There was no point in keeping it, or leaving it about for the nosy Kreacher to find.  
  
He understood, yes. His mother was spending all their money on a new trial, and bribes, trying desperately to get his father out of Azkaban before despair killed him. Draco found it selfish to object in the face of how hard she was working, and the thought of how petty he would feel demanding her attention oppressed him.  
  
But _damn_ it, he had still hoped for a little more acknowledgment from her than this.  
  
“Is something wrong?”  
  
Potter, leaning around the door of his bedroom. Draco thought he could have coped with Kreacher right now, but he definitely couldn’t cope with Potter seeing him like this. He hastily stuffed the package away and turned around, shaking his head as he mopped at his cheeks and the tears that were still on them. When had he started crying? He didn’t know. He tried to concentrate more on the irritating itching feeling the tears gave him than anything else. “Nothing is,” he said harshly.  
  
Potter said nothing, only looked at him and at the gift that Draco had put on the bed, and then nodded to himself. “Come on,” he announced. “We’re going to Diagon Alley today.”  
  
Draco stared at him. “Why?” Potter had seemed content to remain in the house and never go anywhere, except out for an evening at the Weasleys’ now and then, probably because of his own fans.  
  
“Because how else am I going to get you a Christmas gift?” Potter asked, cocking his head and widening his eyes.  
  
Draco gratefully forgot what his mother had said in his ancient quarrel with Potter. “You’re not supposed to _tell_ someone what you’re getting them for Christmas, you git. It’s supposed to be a surprise.” He thought of adding, but did not, that Potter obviously had no manners, not surprising with the way he’d been raised. Something about the way Potter hinted around his Muggle family told Draco that mentioning them might ruin more than he wanted to ruin.  
  
Potter grinned at him. “But I have no idea what you would like, and rather than risk getting you something you don’t want, I’m going to go and get you what you _do_ want.” He reached out and took Draco’s hand, pulling him along. “Come on.”  
  
*  
  
Draco had sometimes—not often, at least not that he would admit to himself outside the private world of his curtained bed at Hogwarts—been jealous of Potter’s friends. He had wondered what it would be like to be pulled along by that kind of whirlwind force, jollied and chivvied and involved in adventures. Paid attention to.  
  
Now he knew. It was bloody exhausting, that was what it was.  
  
They went inside at least thirteen shops, had at least twelve conversations about what Draco wanted, traded eleven sets of insults, rejected ten compromises that Potter didn’t want to make and Draco plain didn’t want, tried on nine sets of clothes, scandalized eight mothers doing holiday shopping with small children, ate seven small meals, discussed gravely six times whether Draco needed an owl, and came out, in the end, with five gifts for Draco. Draco stared at them in Potter’s arms and shook his head.  
  
A soft grey jumper, made of the silky sort of material that he liked but which his mother didn’t buy for him because _she_ disliked it and so thought Draco must. A pair of dress robes Draco could wear at Hogwarts without embarrassment. A small, slender holster for his wand that would fit comfortably under his sleeve without making a huge bulge outside it. A silver watch-chain that he had merely liked the look of.  
  
And a silver watch, making a soft ticking noise to itself, with a face so luminous it looked like quartz. Draco held it for a long time after Potter announced he was going to buy it, listening to it in the foreground, in part to keep from listening to Potter’s row with the shopkeeper in the background.  
  
And to keep his stupid tears at bay.  
  
Potter panted beside him now like a puppy, grinning as they headed back to the Apparition point. “It was worth it, wasn’t it?”  
  
Draco blinked and glanced at him. There was a tone in Potter’s voice he didn’t understand.  
  
He did when his eyes alighted on him, though. Potter wanted to give Draco things he wanted. But he was afraid of imposing, afraid that Draco might have resented the stares and hisses in his direction more than he appreciated the gifts.  
  
Draco smiled. “It was worth it,” he said, and watched Potter light up like a sun coming from behind a cloud.  
  
*  
  
Draco hesitated for a long time before he called Kreacher up to his room. Potter had bought him Christmas gifts, and although Draco didn’t have any money, it was only right that he return the favor. But his would be a surprise, the way _proper_ Christmas gifts always were.  
  
Kreacher appeared in his room and looked anxiously about, as though he assumed Draco would have him clean the walls and remove heirloom dust. Then he relaxed and faced Draco. “Yes, Master Draco Malfoy is wanting?” he asked.  
  
Draco smiled. “I want to know what kind of biscuits Harry—Potter likes best.” He told himself that he had only used that name because he wasn’t about to call him “Master”the way Kreacher did, but there was a thick feeling in his throat that told him otherwise. He swallowed determinedly, and it went away.  
  
“They are being small and white and fuzzy with chocolate in the middle!” Kreacher said, and bounced up and down. Draco sincerely hoped that “fuzzy” meant sugar was on the top instead of mold. “Master Draco Malfoy is wanting me to make these biscuits for Master Harry Potter?”  
  
Draco shook his head. “No, I want you to teach me how to make them.”  
  
*  
  
Draco stepped back from the distinctly Muggle oven and mopped his brow. It had taken him far longer to calm Kreacher down—he had threatened to jump from the top of the house when he heard that Draco intended to bake on his own—than it had to extract the recipe or make it. Now it only ought to take twenty minutes or so, if Kreacher was right, and then the biscuits would be done.  
  
And Draco would have something for Potter that he had made himself.  
  
The thought pricked him in odd places. He knew some of his friends had delighted in making presents for their parents, but they were good with certain specific charms that made neat stitches in clothing or fastened bits of metal and jewels together, and there was certainly nothing as mundane as baking involved. He knew that Pansy had made a special kind of toast for her mother one year, but that showed how skillful she was in ordering the house-elves about, not what her hands could do.  
  
Draco himself, and his parents, had always preferred bought presents. Who wouldn’t? They were delicate and beautiful, and they did what you wanted them to, and there was no time wasted trying to clean up a mess or decide on the best method of doing something. The thrill was in the surprise.  
  
This time, though—  
  
Well, Potter had done one non-traditional thing. Two, if you counted inviting Draco to his house in the first place. So it was okay for Draco to do something non-traditional in return. Potter would probably even appreciate it, Gryffindor sop that he was.  
  
Draco did have to go upstairs and make sure his mother’s gift was ready to send. There was only one rather grumpy owl that came around Grimmauld Place, that Harry— _Potter_ had borrowed from one of Weasley’s brothers. When Draco had asked why Potter didn’t have an owl of his own anymore, Potter had said, “Because I don’t,” and then hadn’t spoken for half a day. So Draco had decided not to ask.  
  
He’d got his mother a delicate silver necklace with an emerald at the end of it, bought by means of a loan from Blaise. Draco turned it over and stared at it. It would almost make a better present for Potter, because of his eye color.  
  
But Draco shook his head then. Potter wouldn’t know how to appreciate it, wouldn’t know how to take care of jewelry. Draco had certainly never seen him wear any, outside of a rather battered watch. And this was too delicate, meant for a woman’s neck instead of Potter’s strong one.  
  
Draco shut his eyes. He didn’t want to think about that. He hastily got his package together and told the owl where to go.  
  
He was so successful in not thinking about what he didn’t want to think about that it wasn’t until he smelled burning that he remembered the biscuits.  
  
*  
  
Draco ran into the kitchen, and stared. The smoke was already clearing out, thanks to the efficient and competent way Kreacher had reacted, but the smell still lingered, and his biscuits sat on top of the counter.  
  
They were _completely_ ruined. Draco found it hard to contemplate how they might have been worse unless he was calling on the Dark Lord for assistance. Their shapes were as twisted as a unicorn’s horn, and great masses of sticky chocolate bound them to the pan Draco had used. The smell was worse when he stepped towards them, so that Draco flinched and halted at a distance far more from that than from the heat.  
  
“Is something wrong?”  
  
Draco turned around. Potter stood behind him, his gaze going in a puzzled fashion from the biscuits to Draco’s face.  
  
“Have you started burning food, Kreacher?” Potter added, and then said no more than that, probably because he knew the way a house-elf would start wailing and beating his head against the wall if he was scolded. But he did come into the room shaking his head and waving his hand in front of his nose.  
  
Kreacher started to mutter anyway, but it was low-level enough Draco could have ignored it. He couldn’t stand for Potter to find out later that he was the one responsible by questioning Kreacher, though. Potter would think him a coward again, and that was intolerable.  
  
 _Why should it be?  
  
You know the answer to that._  
  
Draco sighed and said, “It wasn’t him. It was me. I asked him for instructions on baking your favorite biscuits, and I—forgot about them. This is what happened.”  
  
Potter turned towards him with his eyebrows raised and his teeth showing between parted lips. Then he said, “What—why would you want to do that?”  
  
Draco glared and folded his arms. He always _had_ found it easier to deal with Potter when he could get angry at him. “What the bloody hell do you _think_ I’m doing, Potter?” he snapped. “I wanted to make a Christmas gift for you, but I don’t have any money. This was supposed to be a surprise, but I ruined it, and you ruined it by coming into the kitchen, and I hope you’re happy now.”  
  
He turned his back and stood there, staring at the far wall and fuming. But he didn’t walk out of the kitchen and up to his bedroom, where he knew Potter wouldn’t have followed him. Perhaps he was hoping for something.  
  
He got it when Potter put his hand on his shoulder sand said gently, “Thank you for the thought. But there’s something you can give me that would please me just as much.”  
  
Draco turned his head slowly to peer at him. It wouldn’t be the same, he thought mulishly, because this time it wouldn’t be a surprise, but at least it would be equal to the gifts Potter had bought him, that way. “What?” he asked.  
  
“This,” Potter said, and moved nearer, and then nearer, so slow and gentle and considerate that Draco knew exactly what was going on and could have backed away if he wanted to. It _figured_ that Potter would be this sweet and this much of a Gryffindor about something so simple.  
  
But Draco stood still, and perhaps even arched his chin forwards at the last minute to make the kiss a little faster, although no one watching could have told that.  
  
They kissed for quite some time, until Draco forgot all about the smoke of the burned biscuits in the air, and Kreacher’s muttering had faded. That might have been because he’d left; he was certainly nowhere in sight when Draco could lift his head from the miracle of Potter’s mouth and blink around.  
  
“You’re all right now?” Potter said, lifting his head, too, and raking his fingers casually through some of his hair. Then Draco saw his hand shaking and realized he wasn’t very casual after all, and suddenly, the smugness that filled him was overwhelming, almost choking, and he felt very much as he would have if he had managed to bake the biscuits and pack and wrap them without Potter suspecting. Only better.  
  
“I am,” Draco said, and reached out to slide an arm around Potter’s neck—well, he supposed he ought to say _Harry’s_ neck—and bring him back in again. “As soon as you kiss me some more.”  
  
Potter’s overwhelming grin of delight was almost the better gift, but not quite.  
  
*  
  
Narcissa’s gift turned out to be a pair of grey trousers that complemented his grey jumper from Harry nicely. And Harry had kept one gift back, after all, and held out a spare watch chain, this one with an emerald at the end of it, the Slytherin House colors, and Harry’s.  
  
They kissed on a thick, warm rug, with a blazing fire on the hearth, and candles shining everywhere around them, and dark memories fled in the face of the light.  
  
 **The End.**


End file.
